Mistress and Commander

Mistress and Commander -- Grey Seas Over

Warning--This story may put you off your stroke. If you want a wanker, try elsewhere.

I dedicate this story, with apologies, to Farley Mowat, founder of the Beaver Club of Amateur Naturalists, and like me, a writer (although a much better writer than I) who never let facts get in the way of truth.

Pernambuco was a memory and Recife was long since pissed away with the last of the Kaiser draughts she had drunk on the beach. Margarethe Maria Ehrenreich von Schuldig, Mistress of the ship or vessel

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, watched the watery sun sink slowly into the grey cloudbank to port, and the blacker clouds loomed dead ahead. She did something she hated, but nevertheless succumbed to with barely a thought--she second-guessed herself. Should she have run for Montevideo when she had the chance?

"Fucking goddamit no!" she thought, and took out her frustration on poor Robin at the helm. "Steer smaller than that, damn you!", she snapped. "Slopping all over the bloody ocean like some seldom-fed wharf lumper! Not on my ship, laddie!" And she flew out of the captain's chair and slapped his face, hard. "By God, if I say I'll teach someone the sea, I'll friggin' goddam teach him—or kill him. There's no third way, boyo!"

She sat back in her captain's chair, anger spent. Her thoughts continued on at light speed. "Do I feel better now I hit him? Yes. Was I right? Hell no. Never beat someone who can't beat back, or doesn't want to (except sometimes). Will he learn the sea? Yes, he's improved since Carriacou, and he did well in Recife, even if he fucked my poor little Jenny Wren supposedly behind my back. I hope he enjoyed it, because if I catch him at her again I'll generously let him have some of my precious Worcester sauce when I feed him his genitals. But I was always a soft-hearted bitch."

Her thoughts jumped again. Montevideo might be a "vibrant, eclectic place with a rich cultural life", according to the tourist bullshit, but the port is filthy and there are no decent berths for a beauty like

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.

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in a girl who likes her creature comforts. In Monte, the food and drink costs the earth, Diesel is no cheaper than anywhere else, but there's plenty of pilferage and theft to make up for it. Fuck Montevideo—the Ramblas might be nice in summer, but it's getting on for winter, and anyway, I'm the fucking Mistress of this ship or vessel, , under God of course, and it goes where I say.

The ship's clock struck four bells. Dusk was gathering in. "Now comes the end of the first dog watch, and Robin should get his tea. Tea, forsooth! Why did I ever ship that oceangoing disaster? So I could have someone to abuse? Another ass to finger-fuck, like I needed that? Girl, you must have been bloody doolally! Christ, I could use a drink, but now I have the watch. Oh fuckin' yeah, ho for a life on the bounding main—I don't think."

She stood again. She thought, "You damned liar, you phony virgin martyr saint, you love

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, you love the sea, the life, Jenny Wren, you even love that scrawny Robin. Stop whingeing and start acting like a Mistress and Commander."

The sea was getting lumpy as

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thrust her 135 feet through the short waves, treading them under her forefoot.

When Margarethe spoke, her voice was conversational, almost cordial, but not without the bite, so Robin would know she hadn't gone soft in the head. "Robin, you're relieved. Go below, get your tea, see if you can get a shower but the hot water's low and if you leave me with cold I'll boil your backside; and keep your paws and the rest of your filthy self away from my Jenny Wren. Remember, me young bucko, Cock Robin can be edited to plain Robin with a Bo 'sun's knife. Now get out of my wheelhouse!" Robin went, and she was suddenly lonely. She was conning

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almost mechanically, and, hating that, she turned to her first love with all her attention. "I don't like this sea," she thought, "this is a weather breeder, small thanks to it." She took out her iPhone and finger-flicked to the GOES satellite picture. Looking with one eye at the iPhone and the other at the sea, she ground her teeth, pursed her lips, let out a healthy fart, and reached a decision.

"No way, "she thought, "will we make Port Stanley before this storm hits, and it's got thousands of miles of fetch to build on. Open ocean all the way from Nat Palmer Land to us. Still, there's time, maybe even enough. I'll let the crew get their tea, and have them make it substantial. The next two meals will have to be substantial too, if I've got the timing right, 'cause if I am right and the storm is on schedule, it'll be a long time before we have a full meal."

She flicked the loud-hailer to intercom mode and set it to talk to the galley. "Robin, get yourself a decent tea. Have a couple of the sausage rolls and you can micro some of the chips as well. And take bar of the Cadbury's Nut and Raisin. But brush your teeth! If you get a toothache all I've got is pliers."

"Yes, Mistress."

"And get some sleep, boy."

"Yes, Mistress."

"Got to make my southing," she thought, putting Robin out of her mind. "If I don't make my southing now I'll have to buy it at bank-breaking prices later. I'll trade Diesel for distance, though it's a poor trade." She moved the throttles forward, and

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's motion quickened, the easy scend and dip now becoming a pitch-and-roll.

Darker now it was, and the wind picked up. The needle on the anemometer telltale (I don't trust all-electrics, she thought, they get wonky just when you need them) showed more than the increased motion of the ship. We have a while, she thought, maybe twenty hours, maybe even twenty-four. Time enough to snug her down and secure her properly, if the slobs did their work well. That's unfair, she thought, they're shaping well at last. But the barograph was falling too quickly.

Time on watch was never a problem for Margarethe. She could con

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for days, relaxed and mind-wandering. She thought of poor little Jenny Wren, her eight stone wrapped in her sheets below, how sweet she tasted both her mouth and pussy, how gentle her fingers felt tracing Margarethe's hymen. Margarethe was a vaginal virgin and intended to stay that way. Her ass and mouth and fingers were different stories. Credit a proper convent school upbringing in Germany and England for that.

Now using Robin to take her mind from collective bad news from the sea, the anemometer and the barograph, she remembered the party at the Prospect of Whitby. Jenny introduced her friend. Turned out he was broke, desperate and fleeing a miserable abusive affair with an older drunken man. Margarethe felt sympathy but knew he'd make a poor sailor. Nevertheless, he was willing to do anything (and he meant

anything

), and she needed a full crew this voyage. Mistress and Commander, to the end of the world, she said, and he agreed.

The clock struck eight bells, end of the second dog watch. Robin must be asleep, and she must call Jenny. She flicked the loud-hailer to intercom, set it to buzz at Jenny's bunk—she'd better be there, thought Margarethe, alone, or it's tie them up and lay about them with the cat.

The sleepy little-girl voice answered "Yes, Mistress."

"You're on watch, Jenny Wren. Should have woken you sooner. Rinse your mouth and come to the wheelhouse. Your Mistress will bring you your tea."

"Yes, Mistress, coming now."

Jenny appeared in a clean jumper and long trousers. It was getting colder, and Margarethe didn't want to use Diesel for the VanDerBeeke generator to start the heating. The engine heat would do for now.

"You've got the con, pussy" said Margarethe. "I'll get you your tea. Unless you want cocoa."

"Mistress, thank you, I'd love cocoa."

Margarethe went to the galley, bracing herself against

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's sharper movements. One hand for the ship, one hand for yourself doesn't hold here, she thought. Robin had actually washed, dried and secured his tea things—fuck me, will wonders never cease! Pot of cocoa, cup, two large sausage rolls with mustard, a handful of chips and a bar of Cadbury's dark, all quickly assembled, packed in the basket and carried to the wheelhouse. I'd make good crew, Margarethe thought.

"Here y'are, Jenny Wren."

"Oh thank you, Mistress, I was quite hungry."

"Now say your prayers and eat, girl." Like a mother, so I am, thought Margarethe.

The girl prayed quickly, and Margarethe went on "You can leave the basket with your things in it and take it down and wash up when Robin relieves you. And don't let that little bugger oversleep, he loves to try it on. Just secure the basket, it will get rougher. And standing orders—call me at any time, I'll be in my bunk."

"Aye aye, Mistress."

Margarethe found Robin had left her almost seven minutes of hot water, more than enough. She was asleep when her head touched the pillow. She remembered Stubb, mate of the Pequod: "Think not, is my eleventh commandment; and sleep when you can, is my twelfth." Well, she thought as her eyes closed, one out of two isn't so bad, now is it?

Margarethe heard the two bells clearly. One o'clock? No, not possible, she'd had too much sleep. Five o'clock then. She looked at her iPhone. Yes, five o'clock. Why hadn't she been called at four? She had the cold watch, four a.m. to eight. Bloody hell!

She raced up to the wheelhouse to see what Robin had done to the ship, and whether little Jenny Wren had made it right. Jenny had the wheel, and

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was doing what she did best, shouldering the seas aside impatiently, stepping into the crests. The pitch-and-roll had increased.

"Jenny Wren, why wasn't I called an hour ago? It was my watch. I'll have no damned heroics on my ship. I need my crew rested and ready, and fucking up the watch bill is not the way to do it." She took hold of Jenny's short brown hair and pulled it hard. "Do I have your attention, Miss? Answer me." She slapped Jenny's ass hard.

"Yes, Mistress. We looked in and you were sleeping so soundly we didn't wasn't to wake you...."

"First I'm not a goddam invalid and second the watch rota is there for a reason and third we have to snug

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down hard today, and I won't have the crew deciding how to run this ship. Is Robin asleep?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Well, if he went off watch at four he can have another couple of hours. You go below and have a shower. There might be five minutes of hot water left, then the water heater goes off because I can't spare the fuel, so move."

Jenny left the wheel to Margarethe. Margarethe pulled the laminated pages of the storm preparation checklist from its place beneath the binnacle, and read it over for the fiftieth time. Crew readiness: sleep, clean body, clean clothes, plenty of food, no sickness, good morale, foul weather gear, emergency lights and torches. Then securing the ship: lifelines and handholds, emergency lighting and power, communication internal and external, first aid supplies, abandon ship articles, removals from top hamper and topside, securing all remaining topside articles, ship's interior, deadlights, spray dodger, interior handholds, securing stores and equipment, securing personal effects of crew while keeping most necessary articles close alongside--plenty to do today.

Jenny returned to the wheelhouse and stood by the wheel, but Margarethe waved her away. "We're in for a blow, Jenny Wren, and not the kind we like. There's a storm coming, a big one, and it's headed directly for us. We have nowhere to run or hide, so we're in for a bit of a pasting. We must be ready in all respects by sundown. As soon as it's light outside, wake Robin and get breakfast for all of us, a good one, batty cakes with lacy edges in syrup, rashers, pineapple juice, green tea for me and rich cocoa for you and Robin. We'll only have one meal after that before the storm hits us, so we had better eat well. If this storm is what I think it is, no one will be hungry."

The red sunrise slowly gave way to a yellow, purple and black nightmare of a dawn. "Bring my breakfast to me here, after you and Robin have eaten."

Margarethe ate her breakfast slowly. It was still hot when Jenny brought it to her, and she savored it, as

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kept her stride through the waves now breaking before her. Still time to secure, but less than Margarethe had hoped. Still and all, she thought, we should get through all shipshape and Bristol-fashion. Nothing like an old cliché.

Breakfast done, galley and crockery cleaned and secured, emergency food distributed where needed. Now to the life raft, life jackets, wetsuits and survival gear. Check the commo, ELTs, radio, iPhone in its waterproof case with spare batteries and transformer.

On deck now. Let's move. Secure, tie down, lash, check and check again. Strike below what can't stay on deck. Be methodical, it's just a job, but be sure. Heavy deck furniture and the Whaler, be sure and again be sure; that dunnage will make great unguided missiles if they get loose.

Margarethe remembered Victor Hugo's classic, A Fight With a Cannon. It gave rise to what was now a cliché, the "loose cannon "; it also gave rise to a childhood nightmare, being chased by an implacable monster in a towering storm, seeking her out, crushing her, beating her to death; in Hugo's words, "It is matter set free; one might say, this eternal slave was avenging itself; it seems as if the total depravity concealed in what we call inanimate things has escaped, and burst forth all of a sudden; it appears to lose patience, and to take a strange mysterious revenge; nothing more relentless than this wrath of the inanimate."

"There'll be no bloody "wrath of the inanimate" on my ship," she said between clenched teeth.

It was one bell, half past four, when the work was done, to Margarethe's grudging satisfaction. "Not so good, but could be worse," she told Robin and Jenny, sweating as hard as they were though the air grew chillier by the minute.

"Something hot, crew, eh? Jenny, a big grub-up, even if it must be cold food. We can still heat some cocoa or sweet hot tea. Eat well, because we won't have time for much eating very soon."

Another meal, the communion of the sea, staying together because they need each other, watchful, not anxious or frightened but alert. The sea is still building, and

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is starting to take green water over the bow.

"Just make sure the props don't leave the water. Look at the transmission heat gauge--before it gets to the red line we could lose our engines. Meantime, let's keep heading south."

"Yes, Mistress." "Aye aye, Mistress." To Robin, to Jenny, the thought of Margarethe was home and safety, being a child and being safe. Margarethe sensed that, that she was their stay and comfort. She smiled for a tiny second, then stood to the wheel.

It grew dark quickly. The inclinometer showed more roll, the pitching became heavier,

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now had to force her way, no more shouldering aside the waves but punching into them, battering and fighting. The air beyond the wheelhouse windscreen was riven with spray now, and the revolving screen was working full out and barely keeping pace. And the wind was moaning in a growing agony.

Margarethe heard two bells strike, nine p.m. She throttled back the Diesels, and

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barely moved beyond the next wave, almost tackled by a big one.

"Jenny, lie down on the settee and get what rest you can. Robin, rig a canvas leeboard to keep her from rolling off. You can find some space on the deck and try to be comfortable. We'll have to dodge till this goes past. I can't push

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into this much longer without risking damage or something carrying away."

"Dodging" means just keeping steerageway, heading into the sea, keeping from being swamped or overwhelmed until the storm goes by. Going about and running from the storm was impossibly risky; the ship would broach to and founder if she tried to turn, and would be pooped by a following sea even if she succeeded in such a daft maneuvre.

Hour by hour, the storm grew, summoning up the ice devils of the Antarctic and the white waterwitches of the South Atlantic, making them dance in horrific fury, making them grasp and tear at

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, trying to beat her, blind her, rape her into submission. Margarethe joined with her ship in their agony, at one with steel and teak and Lexan, with oil and grease and fancywork, with her love, her ship.

Margarethe handed the wheel to Jenny. "You see what I have done. Now do it." The trust her Mistress gave her washed over Jenny. Her thin hands grasped the wheel, the tendons standing out. "Aye aye, Mistress," in the little-girl voice, but her eyes were those of a mariner, "I have the con." She had never said that before.

Margarethe lay down on the deck, wedging herself against the settee. The pitching and rolling made sleep impossible, her inner ear furious at the unending motion, but she got a little rest. Robin was wide awake, staring without seeing.

Robin relieved Jenny at the wheel. They were standing no ordered watches, but spelling each other as the need was, making sure none stood longer than he or she could bear, always mindful of the safety of

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, whose call to them was as a lover in pain, fighting through the spasms and breathing as they breathed.

The wind rose to an unending howl, the waves not individual assaults but one constant merciless battering. Margarethe had just taken the wheel from Jenny when a violent pounding noise rang out, then stopped, then rang out again.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" shouted Margarethe, using a phrase she had not spoken in many years, and added incongruously, "what the fucking hell was that?" But she knew; a bolt, a padeye, or a lashing had given way on deck, and her nightmare had begun. The motherfucking Whaler, she thought, that bastard bitch of the devil, why I didn't strangle the fucking salesman who sold me that when I should have bought the fucking Zodiac--fuck it, too late. She called to Robin and he jumped to the wheel. She pulled out her wetsuit, got out of her jumper and trousers and managed, Jesus, Mary and Joseph collectively only knew how, to put on the wetsuit as the ship was fishtailing and jumping and squirming like a colicky child. Her clothes went flying, as she reached for the wheelhouse door.

"No Mistress," screamed Jenny, waking from her doze and struggling with the leeboard that held her to the settee, "it's death out there."

Margarethe didn't answer, but pulled on the safety harness, exited the wheelhouse and blindly clipped on to the lifeline. By luck or whatever she caught the lifeline leading after to the Whaler.

She fought her way against the water, which was no longer wave but air and sky and sea and air again, mixed together, ripping her lungs out, blinding her eyes, screaming filth in her ears. The comfortable deck of

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, her home and consolation, had become a bed of nails, a cross of torture, no longer her home but stolen from her, invaded.

The lashing on the port side of the Whaler, nearest her ("thank God," she choked; if it had been on the starboard side she would have had no chance of securing it), flew free. With each surge and fall, the Whaler lifted free and slammed into the deck. Long enough and hard enough, and the deck would fracture and the sea rush in. Then the long struggle, with death at the end for ship and crew.

Margarethe seized the lashing one-handed, the rope cutting her hand as it writhed. One hand for the ship and one hand for yourself? Never here. She groped blindly for the padeye. Found it, drew what remained of the lashing toward it, but the rope was too short. It had failed, severed, chafed through. Fingering it, she knew why: the three-eighth inch nylon she specified was quarter-inch, mislabeled. "That bastard Ferreira!" she cursed, the chandler in Recife had cheated her. "I should have inspected everything, but there was so much to do...." And she had also wanted some time to fuck Jenny's ass and Jenny's cunt, and have Jenny fuck her ass and lick her clit, and then she could pinch Robin's balls and slap him around for fun--and now it wouldn't matter, they were all dead anyway.